The Running Kind: A Hector Lassiter novel

by Craig McDonald

  “I hear you, Jimmy. And there’s a real advantage in you still being in circulation out this way, still in touch with various of these parties.”

  “And for the moment I am being courted on all sides,” Jimmy said. “It’s not just Vito and his guinea hoodlums who want that woman in there and whatever papers of Katy’s she might have access to. It’s fecking Kefauver’s stooge, too. That little Alamo on the police station steps upped the ante many times over for Gibson. He has to get something from all this now.”

  “So this is what it takes to make that attorney care?” Hector looked up at the sky. “Jesus Christ.”

  Jimmy said, “To that end, have you run across whatever it was Katy had of her husband’s ledger?”

  “No, but I haven’t exactly looked all that hard.” Hector felt around his pockets and found his car keys. He passed them to Jimmy. “Kate’s stuff is still in the trunk. Let’s do that now.”

  Jimmy the cop handled the search—patting down jackets and skirts and frilly, silky underthings. He got out a penknife and cut out the linings of Katy’s luggage even though he had helped Kate pick out the suitcases just a short time before she was killed—that timing almost certainly precluding them containing anything hidden in that way.

  Nothing.

  They sorted through Shannon’s smaller suitcase, as well.

  Fruitless.

  “Well, damn it anyway,” Jimmy said when they were clearly finished. “What a sorry quandary we’re in.”

  “What’s Eliot’s take on all this, Jimmy? Or do you know?”

  Jimmy closed Shannon’s suitcase and slammed shut the car’s trunk. “I suspect Eliot saw all this as a ticket back to a badge of some kind. In some respects, suddenly, there’s some tension there between Eliot and me. He’s pissed I let you run from the scene of the shooting.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not important,” Jimmy said. “That said, I don’t rule out Eliot putting some kind of tail on me. Maybe Sagalyn or one of his other Cleveland stalwarts. And that’s another reason you and I should stay apart for a time. Maybe I can plant some false trails for you. At least draw fire.”

  “I could call your tapped lines and let some things slip,” Hector said. “We’ll send those Feds and mobsters and pseudo-Pinkertons on wild goose chases to Frostproof, Florida, or Missoula, Montana.”

  “I like it,” Jimmy said. “It’s a salutary notion. Before we part ways, Hec, I’ll write a schedule for you. These will be favored watering holes and the nights and times I’ll be in those joints. We’ll save those conversations for the real information exchanges.”

  “Brilliant,” Hector said.

  “Do you have some endgame in mind, Hec?”

  “Nada. Meg’s pressing for the same kinds of answers. You know we’ve been winging it up to now and I’m flush out of inspirations.”

  “Not even a notion?”

  “Not beyond hitting the road and keeping those two girls far from inquiring eyes. I’ll grope along the county two-lanes and avoid all the toll roads. Wait for some bolt from the blue, maybe. Short-term, I’m headed to Missouri. Meg has family there who may put us up a few days while I cogitate some more.”

  “Won’t Vito know about the family homestead?”

  “Meg thinks not. Says he’s too foggy. More I hear, more I wonder how that bastard’s holding on to power. He sounds pretty far gone between the ears.”

  “I’d like to take his measure in person,” Jimmy said. “Just wish I had some pretense to roust him.”

  “I’ve been thinking about calling him up myself,” Hector said. “Have us a talk, man-to-man. But not tonight. It’s Christmas Eve, buddy. Merry Christmas, Jimmy.”

  “Happy Christmas to you, Hector. Are we opening presents tonight, or in the morning?”

  “Tonight. Shannon napped so long, Meg couldn’t wait and put your purchases under the tree. Meg convinced Shannon that Santa came early.”

  “Good,” Jimmy said. “I won’t miss anything then.”

  “You have my other gift?”

  “In my room,” Jimmy said. “I’m holding off, just as you asked.”

  “Your room?”

  “I checked in, two doors down. I told you, it’s too risky to be followed back here again. So I’m with you through morning. And, I have a little surprise of my own for the wee one.”

  “Good. Only risk I see to us then is our cars being spotted in the lot here.”

  “Give me your car keys,” Jimmy said. “I’ll unload the luggage and move your car to where I have my Chevy parked.”

  Hector looked around the lot. “Where are you parked?”

  “Rental’s only someplace patently brilliant,” Jimmy said. “They’re closed for the holidays, so there’s no risk of being towed.”

  “Towed from where?”

  “The Chevrolet dealership around the corner.” Jimmy smiled. “I’m the kind of cop, I’m always trying to find ways to screw my own. It’s often useful to think like your potential quarry. So let’s see those maybe dirty, but certainly less-inspired-than-me badge-carrying officers find our Chevys there.”

  Hector thought then he might have hugged Jimmy if he had two working arms.

  27

  Shannon made short work of the packages. Wrapping paper and discarded boxes littered their hotel room. When she was done opening all of her presents, and looking a little glum, Meg said, “What the matter, honey?”

  Hector waited for her to say, “I miss Mommy.” Or something like that. The moment came in a wrenching blur.

  Fortunately, it was a bad call on his part, which made some part of Hector feel sorry for Kate. By now the woman was cold and naked on some pitched tray, likely. Probably being pumped full of formaldehyde and powdered over.

  Shannon said, “I didn’t get a puppy.”

  Meg said, “Oh, honey… maybe Santa’s waiting until we’re settled in our new home. Maybe when we’re not in cars or hotels all the time.”

  Hector started to say something, then Jimmy said to Shannon, “Easy there, colleen. Father Christmas—er, Santa—came early. Maybe he’ll come yet again.” Shannon shook her head sadly as Jimmy slipped out the door.

  Twenty minutes later there was a knock at the door. Hector was reaching for his Colt when he heard the tenor-inflected, “Ho-ho-ho.” Then, “Open the door for an old elf, won’t you, Hector?”

  Jimmy had rented himself an honest-to-God Santa suit, plush crimson velvet and a big white beard. Hector said softly to him, “Now who’s sentimental?”

  Jimmy ignored him and bee-lined for wide-eyed Shannon. Jimmy pulled the little white puppy from behind his back and handed the dog to Shannon.

  Megan’s eyes were glistening.

  It was easy enough for Hector to read her lips:

  Thank you so much.

  ***

  About three in the morning, a tiny hand tugged on Hector’s wrist. It was Shannon.

  Hector said, “What’s the matter, honey? What’s wrong? Doggie keeping you up?”

  “She’s asleep,” Shannon said. “It’s my dolly. She’s crunchy. She keeps waking me up.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Crunchy?” What the hell?

  “Yes,” Shannon said. “She’s making strange noises when I hug her. She’s been doing it for a few days. I can’t sleep with her doing it now.”

  “Do you have to sleep with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I guess I’ll take a look,” Hector said.

  He took the doll from Shannon and padded into the bathroom. He closed the door, turned on the light and prodded at the doll. It was making strange noises—sounded like crumpled paper. He went back out to the nightstand and shook Megan awake. “Do you have sewing kit, Meg?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Come in the bathroom with me for a moment. I think I’m onto something.”

  Sitting on the closed toilet lid, Hector undressed the doll, then slit the seam up its back. He thrust his good hand inside the doll. />
  He said, “Son of a bitch.”

  The doll’s torso was filled with ledger sheets: blood money notes scrawled in closely cramped hand. Pay offs, accounts receivable—all of Vito Scartelli’s nefarious doings laid bare.

  Hector said, “I’m going to put on some pants and take these down to Jimmy. You best take that tissue box and stuff Shannon’s doll and sew her back up. Maybe these slips of paper can yet buy us a way out of this mess.”

  28

  Two nights later, Meg finally broke the news to Shannon about Kate’s death.

  Hector stuck around a few minutes, then felt like an intruder on the little girl’s muted grief. He wandered outside, lit a cigarette, then walked to a phone booth to make the latest of his calls to Jimmy’s stipulated watering holes.

  The news wasn’t good: the attorney, Gibson, happily accepted the ledger sheets from Jimmy but insisted Meg be brought into to establish “provenance” for the damning account records. “I really don’t see what good these records do me without a witness to tie them directly to Scartelli,” Gibson had told Jimmy.

  Hector cursed and gripped the phone harder and said, “Jimmy, at least make Gibson acknowledge publicly he now has the records. That admission alone might take heat off Meg and me.”

  “I already tried that,” Jimmy said. Hector could hear barroom sounds on Jimmy’s end—glasses tinkling and a jukebox in the background.

  Hector suddenly wished he was there.

  Jimmy said, “He wasn’t going for it, Hector. Gibson said he doesn’t want to ‘raise public expectations’ on himself. Cowardly politician. So some journalists have been hounding me for interviews. I’m going to roll the dice, Hector. I’ll tell the newspaper boys about the papers I’ve turned over to Gibson. Well, the ones I gave him, anyway. As a precaution, I held out some of the most damning ledger sheets. Maybe I’ll offer those to Kefauver or Hoover directly, if we can reach them. Put some heat on the attorney that way. I’ll maybe get myself a reprimand, but screw that—it’ll be goddamn worth it. And, like you say, it might take a wee bit of edge out of Vito’s manhunt for you. But only a wee bit. Remember, you have his daughter. Publicly, Vito has to look like he’s pulling out all stops to retrieve her. Failing doing that, he looks less the concerned father.”

  “We’ll talk again tomorrow night,” Hector said. “Oh, by the way, Meg broke the news to Shannon tonight.”

  The neutral tone returned: “And how did that go?”

  “About like you’d expect. I left them in the room, sobbing together.”

  Jimmy waited long enough before speaking to prompt Hector to ask, “Jim, you still there?”

  “Still here,” Jimmy said. “It’s a hard and terrible thing, Hector. What else is there to say?” Something in his tone again, something Hector would yet be a time learning. Jimmy said, “So what now for you, Hec?”

  “Car’s packed. Just need to go fetch the girls and hit the road. I swiped some dealers’ plates from that car lot where you hid our Chevys. I’ll rotate those every few days, try and buy myself some time that way. We’ll drive by night the first twenty-four hours or so. Try and get ourselves over into Missouri.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Jimmy said. “Listen, Hec, I’ve done a little research on this bounty hunter that Vito’s put on your trail. He’s a truly scary boyo. No photos known to exist of him, so I don’t even know what to tell you in terms of a description. But his success in finding folks, even smart and well-hidden folks? It sounds downright preternatural. Über spooky.”

  More good news. Hector said, “This fella have a handle?”

  “Tomás Hawk,” Jimmy said, “though he has another moniker he’s hung on himself he seems to prefer. Almost funny in its way.”

  Hector said, “Let me guess: Tomahawk.”

  “On the nose.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Hector said. “It just keeps getting better. What nullifies this bounty hunter, Jimmy? What are the rules governing extradition by bounty hunters, north and south of the borders?”

  “I’ll have to make some inquiries along those lines and subtly, of course,” Jimmy said. “A certain percentage of the knowledgeable are going to assume if I put that kind of question to them that you’re going to run north or south. Canada or Mexico.”

  “And they’d be right.”

  “Well, good luck, Hector. It’s going to be a rocky road for you, I fear. I’ll try and reconnect soon as possible along the bloody path. You just try and make it through to 1951, won’t you?”

  “That’s the name of the game now, Jimmy.”

  Hector hung up the phone. He dithered a few moments. He stoked up some anger and edged himself over into recklessness. Then he dropped coins.

  He got passed around a bit before he was put through to the man.

  The novelist said, “Hey Vito. I’m that hombre you’re hunting. Hector Lassiter.”

  There was some bluster and then Hector heard papers rustling. Vito Scartelli said, “You’re that man… that… Lassiter?” Hector could tell the man was reading it off some slip of paper.

  “That’s right, you senile son of a bitch,” Hector said. “One chance. You drop this thing and call off your jackals and I’ll let you stay in this world. Otherwise, I promise I’m going to kill you in the slowest and bloodiest way I can devise. That’s a naked fact.”

  A torrent of profanities ensued. The tirade ended on, “You’re in no position to issue threats, Lasher.”

  “Lassiter. And sure I am,” he said. “You keep up this chase and I swear you won’t see Valentine’s Day from the right side of the sod. I’ll come back to Ohio and I’ll find you. I will see you dead. That’s a solemn promise. You push on down this road and I’m afraid you’ve gone and bought yourself an authentic vendetta, Vito.”

  Vito said, “I’ll see a bullet between your eyes before you ever get a shot at me. You’re dead, Lattimer! That cunt Megan is fucking dead! Shannon is—” he stopped himself there.

  Hector drew a deep breath, then said, “When I come for you, Vito—and now I am coming, I’m determined on that point now, regardless of anything else—I’m not going to shoot you to death. It’s going to be something infinitely worse than that. It’s going to be slow and painful beyond your worst imaginings, but not beyond mine, and I’ve got a lot of imagination, hombre. Hell, I’ve got more imagination than anyone you’ve ever met in your sorry excuse for a life. And I have a very dark imagination, as you’re going to learn at bloody length. This a solemn promise from me to you, old pal. If you have any sense left in your diseased brain, put a gun in your mouth tonight and pull that trigger. You’re going to hate what happens next between us. That’s a pledge that will be honored.”

  Hector racked the receiver. His good hand was shaking.

  Brave words. Hector sorely hoped there was something backing them up.

  Sometimes your muse failed you; sometimes even your darkest muse did that.

  29

  They crossed in darkness into the state of Indiana. About half the expanse of Illinois was driven in dusk, too.

  The girls slept in the back of his Chevy, curled up in one another’s arms under blankets. Meg kept muttering in her sleep, seemingly always in the throes of some bad dream.

  Hector kept himself awake with country radio and black coffee from filling stations stopped at along the way. He sipped the bitter brew, tapping time on the steering wheel to Gene Autry’s “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Gene gave way to Hank Snow’s, “I’m Movin’ On”:

  “It’s all over now…”

  A few miles short of the Missouri border Hector knew he’d pushed himself too far. He found a motor court and signed in with a sleepy-eyed young clerk who had a bad case of acne.

  He would have liked to carry Shannon in rather than wake her up, but his left arm wasn’t there yet. So he walked the groggy little girl into the room and led her to a bed. He helped Shannon off with her shoes and pulled the covers over her, too tired even to help her put on a nightgown. />
  Meg leaned hard on him as they made their way into the room; her limp was pronounced. She looked at the two beds, then said, “Which one should I fall into?” Meg smiled tiredly. “Or would we sleep right away?”

  “Your choice of beds,” Hector said. “As to the other, ’tween my left arm and your right leg, it’s going to be a trial for a while. And even if we could get frisky, we can’t do it with that kid just feet away.”

  “Then I’ll sleep with Shannon tonight,” she said. “She’s woken up the past two nights with bad dreams. Crying for Katy. Did you know?”

  “Must have slept through it,” Hector said. “It’s a terrible thing to be a young child and lose a parent like that. Just thank God there was nothing either of us could do to change that sorry outcome.”

  Meg bit her lip and said carefully, “You almost sound like you speak from experience. About losing a parent, I mean.”

  Hector shrugged, struggling to get his coats off. “Had me a time too, about that same age.”

  “Here,” Meg said softly, limping over to him. “Let me help.” She draped his sports coat over the back of a chair, then folded his overcoat and placed it over the back of the same chair. “Where are we, by the way?”

  “Just a few miles from the Missouri border,” he said.

  “Which side?”

  “Still in Illinois.”

  “Then I’ll try and savor this night,” she said. Solemn eyes. “I do so loathe Missouri.”